


150 Sherlock Drabbles

by mycroftholmesbrolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, I wanted some fun though so...., I'm not a purist so these probs won't actually be 100 words, Mentions of racism and nationalism in chapter 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftholmesbrolly/pseuds/mycroftholmesbrolly
Summary: I saw a drabble challenge on Tumblr and thought I'd give it a try.





	1. The Skirt is Supposed to be This Short

Sherlock stood in his bedroom facing the mirror inside his wardrobe. He pivoted, turned, and adjusted his stance multiple times, observing how his body looked in his chosen undercover outfit. He froze with his lips pursed, chin raised and neck extended, eyes squinted and focused on his right eyebrow. He heard the door to the flat open.

“Sherlock we’re home,” John shouted up the steps “Rosie decided you absolute must have gingers nuts, so please thank her for them” he said making his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock made no reply but could hear Rosie asking to be put down, and then making her way to the living room, obviously looking for him. Rosie, not seeing him, toddled towards his bedroom door which was slightly ajar. Sherlock ignored her and continued to focus on his face, satisfied with his eyebrows he had moved on to his cheeks. Rosie had pushed herself into his room.

“Unca ‘Lock” she asked coming to sit at his feet, bag of ginger nuts clutched in her hands.

Sherlock hummed an affirmation.

“Why yous face is coloured? Markers is for paper only.” Her face was crinkled in concern but her eyes were inquisitive and bright.

Before Sherlock could reply John was calling from the kitchen walking towards them.

“Rosie love, remember Uncle Sherlock can’t have the ginger nuts unless he uses his manners. Don’t let him- Sherlock! What on Earth are you wearing...and it’s too short!” John shouted in alarm. 

Sherlock, dressed in full drag, stood perplexed at John’s outburst. “Honestly John how do you expect me to track the money fraudster if I don’t follow him through his Drag Race circuit? And the skirt is supposed to be this short.”

John sighed, in no mood to argue. “Are you sure there isn’t an easier way?”

“Well I could use a partner” Sherlock contemplated.

John blanched, but, Sherlock turned to the bed and picked up a top hot. He turned quickly, leaned down and placed it on Rosie’s head.  
“What do you say Watson, want to be the King to be my Queen” he asked while scooping her up and grinning at John. 

John raised an eyebrow. “Nope,” he reached for Rosie “It’s nap time.”

Rosie bent backwards dramatically falling over John’s arm. “Nooo” she moaned, dropping the ginger nuts in her display of displeasure.  
Sherlock scooped them up and opened them. “Ta, love” he said as he tossed one in air and caught it with his mouth. John chuckled and walked away with the still dramatically displeased toddler.


	2. How Long Have you Been Standing There?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft let's 30 years of repressed grief go.

He’d been in her cell for hours. He’d tried everything he could to get out but, as he’d designed it to keep Eurus in, it wasn’t a fruitful endeavour. Now he simply sat against the wall farthest from the blood stain left from the governor’s attempt to save his wife, knees tucked up close to his chest, face resting on said knees. Eurus was gone, Sherlock and Dr. Watson were gone, and he was left trapped unknowing of their fates, unable to help. 

Help. What a word. He’d been trying for three decades to help his family, to be kind, to protect them from themselves and each other. Yet Sherlock returned to the drugs time after time, Eurus was so far detached from any sense of humanity she would design this experiment, and he didn’t even want to think about his parents’ reactions. He winced. He knew that he would have to tell them after this was all over. The knowledge of their impending disappointment and hate is the straw the breaks his proverbial back.

He cries, first a few sniffles, then a few tears, until eventually the dam cannot be held back. The knees of his trousers become wet with the abundance of tears and snot. His chest, eyes, and abdomen become sore with the strength of his grief, decades of forced upon responsibilities and secrets. A life of self inflicted loneliness, all in the name of protecting his family, pours out of his soul. He doesn’t wail per se, but he does scream. He screams as loud as he can for as long as he can. He screams until his throat is raw and his eyes produce no more tears. He hurts, physically, but the torment he allowed to himself to release has stopped the onslaught of emotional pain. He takes a few steading breaths and centres himself and his resolve to escape.

Steadier than he was previously, he lifts his head to once more survey the cell. Only to discover he is no longer alone. On the other side of the room, just outside the now open door, is D.I. Lestrade.

“How long have you been standing there?” His voice is raw, and it seems he can barely speak above a whisper, but Lestrade hears him all the same. The D.I. takes this inquiry as permission to enter.

“Not long.” He offers a small kind smile. Mycroft takes this to mean that he’d been there for most of it.  
“Yes well, status update.” He tried to sound as fierce as he could. The time for mourning was over, he had to be the Ice Man once more.


	3. I May be an Idiot But I'm not Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy mourns the changes in her middle child.

It had been a year since the fire that burned and hollowed out Musgrave Hall. A year since she was forced to concede that something was wrong with her only daughter. A year since the last spark of joy left her middle son’s eyes, and a year since her oldest had stopped eating cakes and started forging his tongue into a cutting blade. So much has changed but, today was the biggest change come to pass. Her children had always been home schooled before, now though, she thought it was best to send them out into the world. Perhaps Sherlock would brighten at the thought of adventures with someone his age again, maybe they can stop feeding into his restructured memory, maybe he can finally grieve.

She doesn’t hold the same hope for Mycroft, he’s too far ensconced in her brother Rudolph’s shadow. He used to be such a caring, if a bit awkward, lad. Now he calls his brother an idiot, slow, and warns him away from basic human emotions. A year ago he would welcome hugs and would wear soft comfortable jumpers. Now though, he’s practically his uncle’s miniature. He wears suits, though not yet a three piece like her brother. If she were being honest with herself, though she can’t as it’s a thought too much to bear, she had lost all three of her children in that fire. She is torn from her thoughts by the sound of the front door bursting open and Sherlock shouting a proclamation. 

“I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid!”  
She leaves the kitchen and heads into the hallway to great her sons. Sherlock is yanking off his wellies and raincoat, letting them fall to the floor and deposit a puddle of water. Mycroft places his Tesco umbrella in the stand and removes his overcoat to reveal his school uniform, which is pristine despite an entire day at school, not a wrinkle or stain in sight. 

“Mummy! Our data was all wrong!” Sherlock is bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning from ear to ear. The knees of his trousers are covered in mud and his shirt collar is wet from being left outside his raincoat.

“What data my dear? And of course you’re not stupid, neither are you an idiot.” She says the last bit giving a reproving look at her elder son.

“Mycie always said I was an idiot and stupid but, we only had each other to compare to. We were wrong, other children are practically Neanderthals!”

“Sherlock! Other children are perfectly normal, don’t go about insulting them.” She turned to Mycroft, her words a little harsher than when she scolded his brother. “Mycie, honestly you should know better than to place such hateful thoughts in your brothers head,” she lowered her voice so that only he could hear and kept her tone sharp, “He has enough going on up there without further damage.”

Mycroft sighed, but his face did not change from the bored and vaguely annoyed expression he kept the these days. “Well it was the correct conclusion to come to given the, as Sherlock put it, data we had. And my name is Mycroft, mummy. I am no longer a small child to be coddled, fed biscuits, and patted on the head like some dog that has done a trick.”

Before she could reply to that rather rude and out of line remark Sherlock spoke softly in almost a whisper.

“Redbeard could do the best tricks.” His eyes began to water and his bottom lip trembled a bit. He stopped abruptly, shaking his head, and then looked directly into her eyes.

“School is boring and the other children are dull,” he said firmly, “I’m going to father’s study to read his anatomy books.” He ran up the stairs and out of sight.

“I have homework and an essay from Uncle Rudi to complete” Mycroft said, following after his brother.

She was left there stunned, not at the coldness of her eldest but, her middle child’s eyes. They held a light again however, it wasn’t the spark of joy she hoped for. It was an empty baleful fog covered light of intelligence and annoyance. The same Mycroft now carried, the same she saw in her daughter’s eyes after they escaped the fire. Truly, her children were lost to her.


	4. Who Gave You That Black Eye?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes some changes.

Sherlock was sitting at his work bench in 221C Baker Street. The basement flat had been converted into Sherlock’s permanent lab years ago. Originally Sherlock had though his makeshift workspace in 221B’s kitchen had been sufficient enough, safe enough. He promised John it would be. Then the most terrifying thing to happen in Sherlock’s life occurred. Rosie, Watson, his second conductor of light had pulled herself up the side of the island and come into contact with poison sumac. She was two, and apparently highly allergic. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t even seen her ghosting her little hands around the edges, only to come in contact with a pile of leaves from his latest crime scene. It was only when Watson started crying, and her cries became wheezy and wet, that he looked over the island to see her sitting on the floor in pain.

Already large blisters covered her hands, face, mouth, and throat. Time stopped for him then. He remembered counting the leaves, none were missing or eaten. He remembered stripping off his gloves, not wanting to risk any of the oils being on his hands, then grabbing Watson. He stripped he down to her nappy, and gently placing her in the sink. He doesn’t remember calling Lestrade and his brother, begging for them to pull a miracle out of the air. All he remembers is washing Watson with lukewarm soapy water, hoping to get as much of the oil off as possible. He remembers watching her airway as she screamed. He doesn’t remember paramedics, or arriving at the hospital. He does remember seeing Watson look so small in her hospital gown and too big bed, wires and tubes hooked up to her as she slept. He doesn’t remember what John screamed at him in the hospital hallway, only his face, and the whirring noise in his ears. Watson was going to be ok, but that wasn’t the point. Sherlock let her get hurt, he said he would protect her, that his lab would be safe. He didn’t, it wasn’t. 

Sherlock doesn’t remember leaving the hospital, or calling Molly to retrieve his experiments. He just knows that somewhere between John shouting at him and the nurses escorting him out that he made a decision to change. Truly change. Three weeks later Mycroft found him in 221C, with three walls gutted and the floor ripped up, laying on his back on said floor panting. His hands were sore, apparently he ripped at least some of the floor up by hand. He explained what he wanted, and Mycroft called professionals for the remodel. John had been staying primarily with his daughter, only leaving to shower at Lestrade’s, as it was closer. After Mycroft made his calls John had come storming down in 221C and demanded why he hadn’t been to see his goddaughter. 

He had been very very cross. He was very loud about it too. Until he wasn’t. He stopped all at once, and just stared at Sherlock, forehead crinkled in concern.

“Who gave you that black eye” he asked confused.

Sherlock reached up to touch the eye John was focusing on. It was tender but not painful. Funny, he didn’t remember being struck in any way. He marched into the bathroom without explaining.

“Yeah, no Sherlock. Dont go wandering off without answering me.” John followed him.   
Sherlock pulled the light chord and investigated his face in the mirror. There was a heavy bruise below his left eye and expanding to the bridge of his nose and partially over his lid. The bruise yellowed a bit near his cheek, and there was a red cut in the centre of the deep purple below the eye. He could see John watching him through the mirror. 

“I think it was the radiator pipe. The one poking out of the wall below the window.” Sherlock made this announcement as he continued to prod the affected eye.

“You think,” John asked incredulously, “Sherlock what in seven hells do you think you’re doing here!”

Sherlock turned around to face him, letting the absolute exhaustion show through his entire body. “I can’t do this anymore John. The Work is everything, at least it’s supposed to be. But then Watson, Rosie, got hurt and everything stopped. I don’t think I’ve been fully aware of anything in weeks. But she can’t get hurt if I work down here, she can’t be assaulted painfully and suddenly if the Work is locked away down here. 221B is home. Mine, yours, and hers. The Work can live down here.”

John gapped a moment, and then melted. Things returned to normal after that.

Two years later, literally no one was surprised when John moved into his room, leaving Watson the upstairs one. At first the move was honestly just convenience, they had shared hotel beds after all, and the littlest member of the household was becoming not so little. It developed from there. Apparently there had been a bet, Lestrade won, Mycroft was sour for weeks. If Watson had to be harmed by his selfishness, then he’s glad this was the result. The Work accessible and safe, Watson free to roam and grow within absolutely safe boundaries, and he and John. It was always just the two of them against the rest of the world, after all.


	5. You Haven't Even Touched Your Food. What's going on?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie is anxious.

The Holmes-Watson household sat gathered around their kitchen island enjoying a family meal, for once. Sherlock and John had just solved a case around lunch that day. Which meant they both returned to Baker Street dirty, exhausted, and simply collapsed in their bed. Which is how their thirteen year old daughter found them upon her return from school. Normally the sight of her dads collapsed after a successful case brought her joy and excitement, for it meant slow and relaxing times with them. This particular time though, made her stomach twist in anxiety. Dads focused on a case meant dads not paying attention to her worries, dads on a solve high meant hyper fixation on her every mood. The traditional takeaway celebration dinner would mean trouble. So here they sat, two on a solve high, one playing with her food.

“You haven’t even touched your food. What’s going on?” John sat across from Rosie, face full of concern. He hadn’t noticed any odd behaviour from her this week but looking at her now, he could tell something had been eating at her.

“It’s nothing really. Just some school stress.” She spoke nonchalantly and shrugged her shoulders, but she didn’t look up at her Da, and continued to draw figure 8’s in her fried rice.

John looked to Sherlock, silently asking if he knew what was wrong. Sherlock chewed his bottom lip and then sighed.

“I promised a long time ago to never reveal things I have deduced about you or your friends unless I found it absolutely necessary,” Sherlock paused looking directly at his daughter, “But this situation seems a bit borderline and as such I’d like it if you introduced the topic instead of forcing me to announce it.” Sherlock waited patiently for Rosie to make her decision, he didn’t look at John.

Rosie sat her chopsticks down and took a deep breath. “I got in a fight at school. They suspended me.” She kept her eyes on the table, and tried to make herself as small as she could.

“You are suspended! Why on Earth were we not told or cont-”

“John I’m sure she has a perfectly good reason. Please, give her a chance, and don’t yell.” Sherlock cut in, keeping his voice even.

John took a breath but it was obvious he still was cross. “We weren’t contacted Sherlock. I don’t care that we’ve been on a case we should have been told. And what do you know about the situation?”

“I agree. And only what I’ve been able to deduce since waking up from our nap. My silence alone should be reason enough to hear her out.” Sherlock and John both turned their attention back to Rosie.

She gave Sherlock a look of thanks. “You weren’t contacted because I called uncle Mycroft when I was called to the headmistress’ office. I convinced her secretary to allow it since you were on a case.”

John clenched his jaw trying to keep his anger about Mycroft being involved, in check.

“He came immediately, though on the car ride to his office he said he’d only not call if I promised to tell you after the case. And that I would be spending the rest of the week in his company studying, at least until the case was over.” She paused and worried her lip. “There’s a girl in my class who is really smart but a bit,” she paused looking for the correct descriptor, “awkward.”

“She sounds like your Papa” John added helpfully.

“Which is exactly why the fight happened. Not with her, for her” she rushed to explain. “She’s younger than the rest of us, she skipped a couple years. And there’s this other girl, she’s not so nice. No one really likes her, except for her cronies. Well, I was walking across the courtyard after my free period and...this other girl had Annaliese, the smart one, pinned in a corner.”

“So you stepped in and defended Annaliese” John stated.

“Yeah. The janitor walked around a corner to see me wailing on the other girl. Annaliese had run off the second she was free. She did try to tell the headmistress later that I hadn’t started it but, she wouldn’t listen.”

“You did the right thing, and we’re proud of you,” John began, “however, you lied to us and attempted to keep us out of the loop. For that your papa and I need to discuss your punishment. You’re upset, so why don’t you take your food to your room while your papa and I discuss what we’ll do.”

Rosie nodded, relieved she wasn’t in worse trouble. She picked up her plate and an extra container of chicken. Once she was out of sight, and earshot, Sherlock turned to his husband.

“I didn’t really deduce the fight. Mycroft called while Anthea escorted Rosie to the bathroom that first day. I know I should have informed you, but Mycroft said Rosie was absolutely distraught, she’s never been in trouble before.”

“Well you’re grounded then, you and Rosie both” he said with a smirk on his face.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, no ginger nuts or chocolate biscuits for two weeks.”

“But but but, I’ve just solved a case!”

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time” John said as he cleared the island. Sherlock pouted.


	6. I just like proving you wrong.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft share a drink.

“We’ve had three joint Balls, gatherings, and even a damn company picnic together since we moved into the Curtis and not once have you actually been in attendance.” Greg was speaking in an admonishing tone to the younger man beside him but, his eyes were full of mirth. “Yet here we are now, in the most decrepit old pub the North could muster up, sipping a cider.”

Mycroft leaned across the table they shared, situated in a dark corner. “Well,” he paused smirking, “I’m not one for forced Bureaucratic social gathers.”

“That’s literally your job” Greg deadpanned. “Besides, I’m sure Her Majesty would be highly disappointed in you for not going along with the government’s new interdepartmental social niceties initiative.”

“Social niceties initiative is an odd but apt name for the Open Information Act.” Mycroft was leaning back in his chair now. 

He was somehow completely at ease in the dingy pub. It might have something to do with being the closest pub to his parents’ cottage, but Greg doubted that. Whatever his reasons Greg was certainly enjoying the view. Mycroft had always been attractive, but a less stiff Mycroft was a gorgeous one.

“Perhaps, I just like proving you wrong.” Mycroft was quiet, and no longer leaning back with ease and comfort. He was looking towards the entrance, bow furrowed.

“Wrong” Greg asked alarmed.

“Sherlock said last week that you thought I was snobbish and cold.” Mycroft spoke distractedly eyes focused on the entrance, where now a woman with long blonde hair was being blocked from entering.

Greg turned his focus to the front as well. The woman and the manager were having a heated argument. He was about to ask Mycroft what they were saying when he noticed a strand of black curly hair peaking out from under the blonde. “Oh for the love of,” Greg began, “Shove off Sherlock you’re clearly not winning this. I will call John” he shouted.

Sherlock froze, turned his face towards Greg’s exclamation, and looked absolutely offended. His moment of pause was enough for the manager to toss him out.

“What on Earth was that about” Greg asked.

Mycroft’s attention was once more focused on Greg, his moment of discomfort gone. “Sherlock was banned from this pub when he was 12.” Mycroft gave a slow sly smirk.

“12,” Greg asked surprised, “Do tell” he finished, leaning forward, resting his chin in his hands.

“He threw his dissected frog at his lab partner, who happened to be the owner’s daughter. I should say said incident occurred after Sherlock had smuggled the abomination onto the playground. He wanted to show the girl why she missed question three of the lab write up.” Mycroft was now mirroring Greg’s position.

Greg laughed. “Well, now that prying eyes are gone, would you like to accompany me to dinner upon our return to London?”

“And what gives you the impression I would be interested?”

“You care what I think, you were vulnerable to Sherlock’s blatant lies, and said man just attempted to sneak into a pub dressed as a woman. Clearly, there’s interest if your brother is willing to kick up such a fuss, and for you to listen to it.”

“The man is observant after all,” Mycroft said in mock surprise. He leaned a bit closer and whispered, “But let’s be clear, your offer is actually our second date.”

Greg sat up straight, confused. “Second?”

Mycroft stayed as he was, simply choosing to look up at the man through his eyelashes. “Yes, what else would you call an invite to my parents’ house for Easter? Not only did I invite you, but Sherlock’s invitation to Dr. Watson and young Rosamund means that we’re squashed into my full size bed. Did you really think I would forget the Watsons?”

Greg gaped. “Well you best not get handsy, if I don’t kiss on the first date I certainly don’t horizontal tango” he said jokingly, eyes dancing. Mycroft just flicked his napkin at him.


	7. Everyone Keeps Telling me You're the Bad Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day after his brother's wedding, Mycroft and Rosie have a chat.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” Five year old Rosamund Mary Watson made her proclamation unprompted, while drawing unicorns on the scrap paper Mycroft had given her. She was lying on her stomach in the middle of her newly minted Uncle’s home office. The particular unicorn she was drawing had a bright blue mane and purple hooves and horn. She was blissfully unaware of the hurt expression on her Uncle’s face.

“I beg your pardon” Mycroft asked in an even tone, so the child before him would not worry.

“Well, they don’t tell me,” she drug out the ‘e’, “Daddy just says things to Papa when they think I can’t hear them.”

“Oh.” Mycroft desperately wanted to know what they were saying, especially since they wait until their daughter was out of sight. However, he didn’t want to use Rosamund, she trusted him, really trusted him. Mycroft wasn’t going to betray that trust, this little girl was thus far his only family member that seemed to see him as he was, human. Not the best thought but, it was the truth. No matter his intellect, or how vocal he was about the dangers of sentiment, he would always be human.

Rosie sat up, and turned to face the desk behind her. Her brow was furrowed, troubled. “But only, I don’t see how you can be.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Daddy and papa were really worried before the wedding yesterday, because Aunt Molly had a convention, and Nan Hudson was going to be visiting her sister. Which meant you had to watch me. And I don’t understand, because you love us.” She looked at Mycroft with pleading eyes, seeking confirmation.

Normally Mycroft would be stoic, use his desk as shield, and be waspish with his replies. He could not do that now, not just because his charge was five, but because she was correct and she needed to know she was. Mycroft stood, and walked over to the girl. He didn’t feel looming for such an important conversation would be appropriate, so he joined her on the floor, legs crossed, back bent so he could be as level with her as he could. “You’re right, I do love you, all of you. And your fathers, at least your papa, know this deep down,” he paused, “But, there is a lot of history between us. There are some things they cannot forget, or forgive, no matter my intentions.”

Rosie looked down into her lap, contemplating her uncle’s words. “Daddy says Papa has a sister, but that I’m not allowed to see her. Daddy has a sister too, but we see her sometimes. Why can’t I see Papa’s sister,” she questions, “she’s your sister too! That means we can go and see her while Daddy and Papa are on holiday!” She was excited now, a full on grin graced her face, and she was positively bouncing in her seat.

Mycroft takes her hands in his, and she stills, subdued at his expression. “Her name is Eurus, she’s mine and your Papa’s younger sister. She is ill, very ill.” Rosamund’s eyes widen in concern. “She’s not dying I’ll sweetheart, her illness is of the mental kind, it makes her dangerous. Very few people are allowed to see her, your Papa is one of them, and he visits every fortnight. She cannot speak anymore but, she does play the violin.”

“Like Papa” Rosie excitedly interjected.

Mycroft smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes, they duet together. But Rosamund, you will find no sympathy from your fathers, Aunt Molly, Nan Hudson, or even me, when it comes to visiting Eurus. Perhaps when you are older, an adult really, talks can be entered into allowing some sort of contact, though I make no promises or even encouragement about it.” He spoke softly, but his voice was firm. 

“But she’s my aunt.” Rosie’s bottom lip began to wobble. 

“I...yes. But she is not well, and I do not know how to explain it to you properly. However, I think you can understand this. If your Daddy, Papa, and I agree on something, then you can be sure all avenues of thought, practicality, and sentiment, have been explored. Currently, the three of us agree, you should not be in contact with Eurus Holmes.”

Rosie had tears in her eyes, and was once more looking into her lap. “OK.” Her voice was strained and small. She sniffled. “I still don’t understand something though.”

“Yes my dear?”

“How can my dads think you’re the bad guy, you’re sweet.” She looked at him, a watery smile on her face, but her eyes were sincere.

Mycroft laughed. “We’ll see how sweet I am when you’re older and a troublemaker, Rosamund.”

“I’m already a troublemaker...Myc.” Rosie grinned defiantly

“Now don’t go joining your grandmother, my name is Mycr-“

“Rosie” she interrupted firmly.

“Ah, I see. My apologies Rosie.” He smiled gently at her and then stood, picking her up and leaving the office for the kitchen. 

“Why are we in the kitchen” Rosie asked when Mycroft plopped her in a stool.

“Well we’ve had an emotional day, so I do believe we deserve hot chocolate.”

“Yes!”

Mycroft smiled, taking mugs and other supplies from their various places. “Now as for why your fathers believe me to be the bad guy,” he paused turning to face her while the milk heated, “Your Papa and I share a long history, one where I often left him out of the loop and took my position as oldest very seriously.” Rosie nodded, listening intently. “I wasn’t, and still am not, very straightforward or honest in my micromanaging of his life, though I’ve lessened my habits the past few years.”

“So there are cameras in our living room and kitchen. You only want to look out for us, and Papa says you took out the voice recorders. That means you can only peak in and see how we are, you’re always working Uncle Mycroft, how else will you know we’re ok.” Rosie spoke as if this were normal behaviour, as if all families behaved as hers did. It was touching.

Mycroft placed a mug of hot chocolate, topped with cinnamon and whipped cream, in front of her before sitting down. “Yes well, your fathers don’t see it that way, nor do I expect them to. And as for your daddy, we’ve never gotten on. Our relationship only became worse. To be honest I’m very surprised he’s allowed me any role in your life.” He sipped his drink.

“I think Papa gave him puppy eyes. Plus he said you’ve been trying. Daddy just grumbles about that.” She too sipped her cocoa, receiving a cream moustache for her efforts. “But you do care, I mean who would have pushed adoption papers through on short notice, and record amendments that let me have Papa and Daddy’s last name, but only Daddy’s for school? Everyone hates paperwork but you did extra, so I could be happy, that’s love.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but there is still a lot of ground to be made before I ever have your Daddy’s trust. But I do believe we have that time.” They smiled at each other and sipped their drinks, content in each other’s company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reference to Rosie’s name. It's Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes on all legal documents, but Mycroft made sure her school records would only reflect Watson. This way it is not immediately apparent that her dads are the famous detectives, and that she has a better shot at making true friends.


	8. Forget it. You Fucking Suck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie makes a friend, and then learns horrible things about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This one focuses on racism and features excerpts from tweets and a train conversation I overheard after the Brexit Vote. I do not support racism, fascism, or hate speech. There is no place in this world for such things, and those who proport it or are complicit in its occurrence, fucking suck. Stand up, Speak out, Revolt.

Rosie Watson-Holmes has always had a soft spot for the school pariahs, especially after all of the stories she’s heard about Papa and Uncle Mycroft’s childhood. Children could be unkind, and this nine year-old was determined not to be. However, Rosie’s patience was being tested by one year four classmate. Said classmate was a new student whose parents had moved to London three months ago, her name was Stasha. Stasha, as all new kids are, was approached by most of the class her first few weeks at school. Yet somehow had managed not to make a single friend, worse, she ate lunch alone. After a month of eating alone, Rosie decided enough was enough and that she would befriend the girl.

Things started out fine. Stasha was actually short for Nastasha, and she enjoyed hiking, playing with and investigating insects, and loved Star Wars. Rosie couldn’t understand why she hadn’t made friends sooner. Then about a week after Rosie had first sat down to eat with her, Stasha started talking about how horrible London was. It turned out she moved from a small rural seaside village in southern England. It was fine at first, a few complaints about smog, and the commute to school. Then it was how she didn’t like her neighbours, Rosie thought perhaps they were mean, but Stasha never gave specifics. Then it was how much she hated the art teacher Mrs. Suresh, but Rosie always found her to be patient and funny. Rosie was a bubbly naive child, whose rose tinted glasses were about to be shattered. 

Stasha invited Rosie over to her house for an afternoon play date. Nan Hudson was watching her for the week, due to her dads being on a case. Nan Hudson had met Stasha’s parents briefly and agreed to the play date. Rosie had been so excited to leave school with Stasha and her mom. The three of them talked about Bees the whole way to their house. Stasha’s mom didn’t know much about them, but she substituted childhood stories of her neighbour who was a beekeeper. 

“Oh” Rosie explained, “Speaking of black and yellow, did you see Mrs. Suresh’s optical illusion painting on the back wall today? It was memorising!”

“It was sloppy, Mrs. Tarly at m old school, had done a better one, and it was blue and purple.” Stasha had sneered a bit at their art teachers name. “Daddy says we can play in the garden or we can play cards at the table.”

Rosie frowned at the dismissal of Mrs. Suresh but shrugged through it. “It’s a bit nippy to play in the garden. Do you know how to play rummy?” Stasha nodded, and they played for a bit before Stasha made a statement about Rosie’s neighbourhood.

“You sure do have a lot of off colours in your neighbourhood. Is it because of the sandwich shop? Ours only has the Ghanbari’s next door and the Attar’s at the corner.” She spoke nonchalantly but Rosie was flabbergasted, Stasha couldn’t mean what she thinks she meant, could she?

“What do you mean?”

“The foreigners. Daddy says they should all be gone by now. The vote was pretty clear, we’re taking our country back, finally having the gonads to stuff it to the EU. They’ve been robbing us for years and we won’t stand for it any longer.” By now neither child was paying attention to their cards, but instead looking at each other dead in the eyes.

Rosie could have argued, could have lectured or debated but, there’s no debating stupidity. So instead she stood up and threw her cards on the table.

“They’re people just the same as us. EU exists to create stability, and maintain peace. If anyone should leave, it’s you and your kind, but right now it’s me.” Rosie pulled out her mobile, meant only for emergencies, and called her Uncle Greg to come and get her as he was closer to her than Hudson.

“I don’t understand, I thought we were the same, that we were friends.” Stasha looked terribly upset as Rosie finished her call.

Rosie was alarmed, and angry. How could she have been so blind, so complicit on what this girl had really been saying. Well not anymore. “Forget it, you fucking suck.” And she marched out onto the stoop, and was greeted by her Uncle pulling up to the curb. 

Stasha’s dad was transferred to a job in the middle of nowhere, and the family moved with him. Rosie expected Uncle Mycroft had something to do with that. Rosie joined the local international club and got more involved with her local charities, she wasn’t going to be complicit or naive of someone’s hatred ever again. She was even trying to get Papa and Uncle Mycroft to teach her how to deduce people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise I could have gone deeper in the defense of those the character Stasha was attacking. But I was getting super angry just typing out Stasha’s words and wanted to leave the fic unfinished. I may even delete this one and try and find a different inspiration for the prompt. However, when I first saw the prompt this was the first thing that came to mind, given the current social climate.


	9. Quit it, or I'll Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s dinner attempt goes awry, and Mycroft and Rosie have a bonding moment.

The giggles from eighteen month old Rosamund Mary Watson, which were usually pleasant, were currently absolutely sickening. Sherlock was cleaning and disinfecting the kitchen, not from an experiment, but from the botched chicken dinner he was attempting. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had exploded raw chicken all over the kitchen, but here he was. The littlest Watson sat upon his brother’s lap as he sat on the couch, bent over reading the proposed new terms of his Trust. Sherlock’s Trust had fallen into Mycroft’s management after his second overdose. Now though, Sherlock wanted John, and more importantly, Rosie to have access and receive it’s benefits. Mycroft, as it’s successor trustee, was in charge of its management. Sherlock used to be the beneficiary and the trustee, but had his access revoked, he knew it would be as it was a living revocable Trust, but the drugs had been so in control of him that he hadn’t cared. Sherlock would also come into another Trust upon his parents’ deaths. 

However, that was unimportant. What mattered now was his current Trust, and Rosie’s care should anything happen to either John or himself. None of that was the issue though, the issue at hand was Rosie’s pure enjoyment of his brother’s presence. Not five minutes ago she had been bashing him upside his head with her tiny fists. Rosie was displeased at not being allowed to play with the exploded chicken, and she saw Mycroft as the one preventing her from doing so. Even though it was Sherlock who handed her over to him to keep her away from the mess.

Then Mycroft had to go and ruin it by being...cute. Sherlock snarled at the thought, he had been facing the living room scrubbing the island when it happened. 

Mycroft was doing his best to read the documents as Rosie beat him with her fists. “Down! Play chickie chickie” she screamed over and over again.

Mycroft frowned deeply. “Rosamund, desist immediately. Your godfather has correctly determined the raw poultry bird to be unsafe for playing.” Rosie was undeterred and kept at her shenanigans. 

“Chickie chickie!”

“Rosamund, quit it, or I’ll bite.” Mycroft said sternly, then turned and flashed his teeth at the child. She paused briefly, concerned. 

Sherlock froze, staring his brother down, daring him to actually bite his ward. Mycroft spared him a side eye, which communicated that he meant Rosie no harm. Sherlock continued scrubbing, but kept his focus on the occupants of the living room.

Rosie decided that Mycroft didn’t mean it and continued her rampage.

“Well I did warn you” Mycroft said as he opened his mouth wide and lunged for a flailing arm.

Rosie immediately stilled her movements when she felt Mycroft’s mouth begin to cover her arm. Mycroft bit down, only enough to rest his teeth on her flesh, without any pressure or leaving any indents behind. Rosie opened her mouth in a gasp and looked Mycroft in the eyes. Then Mycroft made a deep chest growl, trying to sound ferocious. Rosie shrieked in joy and began giggling, she found the situation hilarious. Mycroft removed his mouth from her limb, and the took his pocket square out to wipe the bit of saliva from her. He then leaned across the table to pump a bit of hand sanitizer into his palm. He first rubbed it into his hands, and then the access onto Rosie’s arm.

Now the two seamed the best of friends. Sherlock was scrubbing the rest of the kitchen, and Mycroft was periodically making growling noises as he read, each one causing a giggle from the infant. It was absolutely disgusting, he couldn’t wait to show John the video he had snagged of the incident when he got home.


	10. If You Use up All the Hot Water Again, I Swear to god!  You're on the Couch for a Month!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John join the muck people.

Sherlock and John stood covered in mud and other various river gunk, in front of a ranting Greg Lestrade. It was raining, they were soaked and cold, and shivering. The D.I. however, was not content to let them go frolicking home to a warm shower without a proper talking to.

“You jumped off the fucking bridge, the bridge for the love of god. Tower Bridge! Are you insane? No don’t answer, of course you are!” Greg paced in front of them, hand gesticulating wildly. “It’s not enough that you didn’t wait for back up, no you had to tackle the man and jump off a bridge! Not only am I going to be buried in paperwork for the next eternity but I just know your dear brother is going to kidnap me the second I leave the office. Just to inquire why I didn’t stop you! Well I’ll have words for him!” He stopped suddenly, and looked them both over carefully, eyes darting about their faces, legs, and torsos. He sighed. “You’re sure you’re both ok?”

“Yeah, a bit shaken up, and wet to the bone, but we’re good mate” John replied.

Greg nodded. “Good, go home and get warmed up. I’ll call you both into the station for your statements tomorrow.” He turned and walked back towards the crime scene, and the squad car that held their suspect.

Sherlock hailed a cab and the Baker Street boys climbed in. They looked at each other and giggled

“Well that was fun,” Sherlock said with mirth, “But a nice long hot shower is over due.” John sobered immediately.

“If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to god! You’re on the couch for a month!” 

Sherlock just smirked.


	11. If I Die, I'm Going to Haunt Your Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits Greg at work.

“If I die, I’m going to haunt your ass” Greg deadpanned.

“I assure you Detective Inspector, that despite your aversion to my basement, there are no monsters in it.”

Greg ran a hand down his face in exasperation. “OK, first things first. We agreed that if my office door and blinds are closed you’ll call me by my name,” he flicked his hands in an impatient gesture at the door, “and secondly, Love I am not afraid of basement monsters. I’m afraid your brother has set weird traps and gags in among the heirlooms. He showed me a video of your ancestral paintings by the way.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sherlock knows we intend on converting two of the basement rooms into a play area for Rosamund, he wouldn’t dare interfere.” Mycroft leaned on the desk, resting his chin in one hand. “Besides Gregory,” he stretched out his partner’s name, “Isn’t home decor meant to be a relationship builder?”

“Yes,” Greg groaned, “But I don’t see why we have to be doing the heavy lifting. Doesn’t this count as legwork?”

“If you think for one second that I’ll trust some common movers with heirlooms you’re more of an idiot than previously determined.” He stood up to leave, but bent over the desk stopping his face mere inches from Greg’s. “Besides the deal was, you help shift everything down a room and I’ll order the larger tub for the master bath.” Mycroft wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Can’t help but feel you’re winning on both ends of that, Love.” He craned his neck a bit to go in for kiss. Only for Mycroft to yank back and smirk down at him.

“Good afternoon Inspector” Mycroft said with laughing eyes as he turned for the door.

“Tease” Greg pouted. Mycroft just laughed.


	12. I'm Pregnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy news.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Greg and Mycroft sat across from a very nervous looking Molly Hooper, at a corner table of her local pub. It was just past 7 p.m. and the place was packed with football fans and regular visitors of the establishment. In other words it was loud, an no one was giving their little table any mind.

“You’re sure,” Mycroft spoke barely loud enough to be heard, “it’s.” He stops, unable to find the right words for once, and looks at his husband. Greg too, wants to ask the question that leaves a bitter and decaying taste in his mouth.

Molly smiles, through tears, but not unhappy ones. She shakes her head. “No, no, it won’t be like last time,” she grins, and the entirely too loud pub is suddenly silent, at least to the ears of the three involved people, “four and a half months. Honestly I thought the baggy clothes and yoga pants would give it away the moment you saw me.”

Greg laughs. “Well I’m not a walking pregnancy test like some people.” Mycroft then coughs that’s sounds suspiciously like Sherlock. “And this one has been keeping his promise of no deductions when it comes to you and our arrangement.”

“Honestly Gregory you make it sound like some sort of clandestine shadow deal, instead of a friend offering surrogacy for two dear friends.” Mycroft sniffs, but the occupants of the table see that it’s all jest and no heat. 

“Sounds like someone’s been watching their films again,” Molly teases. Mycroft raises an eyebrow in mock reprimand, drops it, and then laughs. He laughs freely, joyfully, and with love in his heart, his tablemates join him.


	13. Looks like we're gonna be stuck here for  a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure and.....treasure?

“Looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while,” Sherlock said as he stared out morosely into the torrential downpour, “luckily I’ve brought snacks and your Daddy made sure you were bundled up before our adventure.” Sherlock grinned down at his adopted daughter, his head was just lightly brushing the ceiling of the structure.

“You know, Nan Hudson sometimes wonders how you can lure Daddy out on your adventures. She also says that’s she proud I have a proper head on my shoulders.” Rosie is grinning too, eyes full of mirth. “Yet here I am, all of seven years old, trapped in an old musty and creaky tree house with my Papa. All because you said ‘Want to go for a hike? There could be treasure’. And honestly I’m my fathers’ daughter.”

Sherlock laughed. “It’s just until the weather breaks, love.” He lays on his back, feet still folded in ‘criss cross applesauce’ as Watson would say. “Hmmm, I did say treasure. Though Mummy seems to have cleaned out my hidden compartment ages ago.”

“How do you know it was Gran?” Rosie was sipping on an apple juice box, staring out the window of the tree house. 

“The wooden puzzle on the outside can be solved by anyone, but the combination for great Aunt Bathilda’s old wall safe comes from the cartesian coordinates of a cylinder, in other words, it requires Maths.”

“I’m bad at Maths, will Gran love me less?” Rosie asked as she continued to stare out the window, no longer sipping her juice, but letting the straw ghost her closed lips.

“Of course not!” Sherlock’s face was full of concern, as he sat straight up, nearly bumping his head. “Whatever would give you that idea? And you’re not bad at Maths, you hate Maths, there’s a difference.”

“Gran loves Maths and I’m worried I’ll let her down.”

“There’s nothing in this world that could possibly make your Gran love you less, or for her to feel you’ve let her down.” Sherlock leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Besides Mycroft is the family disappointment.”

Rosie giggled. “Not for long,” she gestured with her head towards the door.

There in the distance, through the easing rain, Sherlock could make out the figure of his brother and Greg Lestrade. Mycroft was standing under his ever present umbrella while Greg was down on one knee presenting a ring box. Sherlock could see Mycroft nod yes, enthusiastically. Greg then stood and kissed Mycroft passionately. The two seemed in perfect bliss, the now misty rain creating a lovely fog in the forest. Sherlock found it deplorable and shouted. “I’m telling Mummy!”

The two men jumped in surprise and turned in the direction of the commotion. Sherlock couldn’t see Mycroft’s face but, he knew he was frowning. Just then Sherlock received texts from both of the men.

G: Let me live, you bastard. 

M: Gregory is a gentleman and therefore Mummy and Dad already know of his intentions.   
M: Also...(ง •̀_•́)ง   
M: Rosie is teaching me texting emoticons.

"Looks like Uncle Mycroft found the treasure," Rosie beamed.

Sherlock laughed long and loud, happy for his brother and future brother-in-law.


	14. Take. It. Off.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie babysits for the first time.

When getting mushy about your relationship with your cousins, the quote often goes something along the lines of ‘cousins are your first friends.’ In most cases that’s correct however, at this exact moment fourteen year old Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes was decidedly not friends with her five year old cousins Gina and Max. No, definitely not.

“Take. It. Off.” Rosie spoke in her coldest iciest harshest whisper. Her cousins were usually kind, darling, angels. Though they did have their genius and/or manipulative periods, but overall their people skills tended to err on the side of their Dad, not their Da. Perhaps Rosie was being harsh, perhaps she was overreacting. 

“No!” The Lestrade-Holmes twins kept dancing in a circle in the centre of their playroom. Rosie’s pads stuck to every surface imaginable. The windows, walls, the back of Max’s shirt. Everywhere. If that weren’t bad enough each twin also had one of Rosie’s bras on. Rosie was currently chasing Gina attempting to remove said article of clothing but, the slippery little snake demon dodged and danced at all the right moments. 

Rosie had had enough. She had a large group project due next week and none of her group mates were pulling their weight. Three older students the year up had taken to recirculating an old rumour that her dad’s had had her mom whacked so that they could be together, and the school was abuzz with those looks and whispers. And yes, she was on her period. Overall, not a good week. Yet she had still promised to watch the twins for an hour. Their nanny was off today, Uncle Greg, Papa, and Daddy were all on a case. Aunt Molly was in Scotland presenting findings for some sort of study, and Uncle Mycroft, who had been working from home today, was suddenly called in for a meeting. The meeting would take half an hour, plus travel, so really Rosie would only be in charge for an hour. Rosie was thirteen, and had begged her Uncle for the chance, rather have him phone another nanny or sitter. After an agreement between her parents and Uncle Greg, it was decided Rosie could handle it. 

It should have gone well but, fifteen minutes in she had needed to change her pad. Rosie walked two doors down, used the bathroom and returned to chaos. She was gone three minutes. The playroom was suddenly covered in her things as the twins had gotten into her overnight bag. The one she retrieved the new pad from, and flung the contents about the room. Well being an awkward, frustrated, and tired teenager that she was, she screamed. This some how convinced the twins that it was play time. It was not. Now Rosie was at the end of her rope, the playroom was a mess, and her Uncle would be home any minute. She was done. She didn’t yell, she didn’t stomp away and lock them in the playroom and wait for her uncle. Instead she sat down on the floor as the twins sang their songs, and she sobbed. 

This was how Mycroft found her five minutes later. Being a proper adult, he settled the twins, calmed his niece, and righted the playroom. Later that evening he spoke to his husband, brother and brother-in-law, and commended Rosie on not burning the house down or murdering anyone. After seeing photos of the carnage of the playroom they all agreed it was an amenable first attempt at babysitting.


End file.
